


Bandaids and Blackmail

by lovetheblazer



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Banter, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetheblazer/pseuds/lovetheblazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the bad thing about having a million bandaids stuck to your face for a photoshoot is when it's time to rip them all off afterwards. Inspired by <a href="http://lovetheblazer.tumblr.com/post/129291436810/dailydarrennews-herringandherring-outtake-from">this photo</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bandaids and Blackmail

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have hurt/comfort fic ideas coming out my ears right now and I'm hoping that it might cheer Mandy up after a shitty week.

Chris grabs his phone on the second ring, grumbling to himself about being interrupted in the middle of outlining a key plot point for his latest book. Ideas have been especially elusive of late, liable to dissolve into mist the second he tries to put them into words, leaving him with nothing. He jots down a few words: princess, bewitched ivy, and hollowed out tree. Chris just hopes that they will provide enough context clues to jog his memory later on.

“Hello,” Chris says as he finally answers the call. He mentally pats himself on the back that his voice comes out smooth and even, not betraying the irritation that he feels. It's not that he doesn't want to see or hear from Darren, it's just that he'd banked on having more quiet time to himself without interruptions when Darren left this morning, telling him he was going to a fashion shoot.

“Hey,” Darren replies, managing to sound both tired and miserable with only one word.

“That bad?” Chris asks, bemused.

“Uh, it was... weird. That's really the best I can say at the moment,” Darren sighs. “How well stocked is your medicine cabinet? Do you have a first aid kit at the house?”

“I've got all the basics covered, I think. Why – what's wrong? Are you sick? Is that why you're done so early?”

“It's not  _that_ early,” Darren says evasively.

“Darren,” Chris presses, his tone making it clear he wants answers now.

“Not sick. It's... hard to explain. Probably easier just to show you, okay? I'm almost to your house.”

“But you're not hurt, right? It's nothing serious?” Chris feels the need to check, because Darren has the tendency to either dramatically overplay or underplay his injuries. He'll whine over a paper cut or stubbed toe for a solid fifteen minutes, pouting and insisting that Chris kiss it better one day, and then try to go to work with pneumonia and a 103 degree fever the next. It makes it hard for Chris to pin down exactly when he should be worried and when he should simply roll his eyes and tell Darren to buck up.

“No, not hurt either. Not exactly. And definitely not serious,” Darren reassures. “In fact, I need you to promise me now that you're not going to laugh when you see me.”

“Um, okay? I'll do my best,” Chris promises, bewildered.

“Thanks. See you soon.”

* * *

After the phone call, Chris quickly decides that writing just isn't going to happen for him at the moment, his mind too occupied with attempting to come up with creative injuries that might necessitate the first aid kit as well as Darren's plea not to laugh at him. He's mostly just curious now, but also slightly concerned that this might be a rare instance in which Darren's underplaying the severity of whatever accident has befallen him on set.

It's about ten minutes later when Chris hears Darren let himself in the front door using his key. He stands, walking towards the entryway and flipping on an overhead light so he can see better. Darren's back is to him while he locks the door, but when he finally turns, Chris can't help but audibly gasp.

Darren's face is absolutely  _covered_  in red, raised welts. They are oddly shaped though, almost rectangular except with rounded off edges. The skin around his eyes is puffy like he's been crying, except that his eyes themselves are clear, only adding to Chris’s confusion.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asks, stepping forward so he can examine Darren's face up close. He takes Darren's chin in his hand and tilts his face up toward the light, noting the telltale marks of fingernail scratches along Darren's jaw where he couldn't refrain from scratching, he assumes. “Did you accidentally eat some mangos or something?” Chris guesses, referring to the one food allergy he knows Darren has.

“Uh no, you can't exactly eat mangos on accident. They tend to announce their presence and are pretty hard to mix up with other foods,” Darren points out.

“So... what did happen then? Because I held up my end of the deal by not laughing, but if you expect me to guess why your face looks like Brian spent hours attacking it, we're going to be here all night.”

“Brian would never do that to me, now would you, buddy?” Darren coos, directing his comments to Chris's feet where Brian is circling his legs, silently demanding more petting. As if in response, Brian stops rubbing the side of his head against Chris's ankle and slinks off towards the living room.

“Rude,” Darren pouts at his retreating form. He winces when the movement of his face irritates one the welts near his mouth, rubbing at the painful spot.

“Still waiting,” Chris grumbles, patience waning.

“Would you believe me if I told you this was all due to some Mickey Mouse and Ninja Turtles bandaids?”

“Um, what?” Chris frowns. He reaches out and traces the shape of one of the welts gently with his index finger, noting the weird void in the center of each welt. It's in the exact same location where the gauze pad would be in the middle of a bandaid. It's just weird enough to be true.

“Okay, let's assume for a second that I did believe your crazy story. Two questions: One, there had to have been at least fifteen bandaids on your face, judging by the number of welts. What the fuck were you doing with that many bandaids on your face for a photoshoot?” Chris begins.

“Try twenty-eight bandaids. I actually counted as they got painfully ripped off my face,” Darren corrects. “And as for the why, you'd have to ask the creative director of the magazine. It was without a doubt the weirdest photoshoot I've ever done, which is really saying something considering I've done photoshoots for Japanese magazines and they  _specialize_  in inexplicably weird shit in Japan. They also put a bird's nest in my hair, complete with little eggs, and made me dangle a fake stuffed mouse from my mouth by the tail. And what was your second question?”

“I know ripping off one bandaid hurts, much less twenty-eight, but they've never done this to my skin...?” Chris trails off, waiting for Darren to fill in the blanks.

“Well, I have pretty sensitive skin to begin with and I think they used some weird, cheap, off-brand Bandaids,” Darren explains, shrugging. “I must have been mildly allergic to the adhesive in them or something.”

“Honey, this looks like more than a mild allergy. Why didn't you say something to them sooner?” Chris wonders. Darren's need to people please can be a particularly bad personality trait (at least from Chris's vantage point), especially when it leads to Darren saying yes to things that are actively bad for him.

“They were a little itchy and annoying, but I sort of assumed that was to be expected with having twenty-eight of anything stuck to your face. I didn't realize how bad it was until they went to start taking them off. After the first one was peeled off and took a big chunk of skin from my chin with it, I started to realize just how screwed I was but by that point, it was too late,” Darren finishes, shoulders slumping.

Darren looks so miserable and defeated that Chris refrains from ranting about how dumb and unprofessional the photoshoot staff clearly are in favor of drawing him in for a tight hug. He pulls back and studies Darren's abused face for a moment, whispering “Poor thing,” as he kisses the tiny swath of unaffected skin on the tip of Darren's nose.

“C'mon, let's go get you fixed up,” he encourages as he leads Darren by the hand towards his bedroom.

They walk down the hallway and into Chris's bedroom where he deposits Darren on his bed. “Let me go retrieve some stuff out of the medicine cabinet, okay? Be right back.”

Darren nods and flops backwards onto a pillow, pulling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through his Twitter feed.

Once Chris walks into his attached bathroom, he does the same, only he googles “Bandaid adhesive allergy” instead of getting on Twitter since he's clueless as to how to treat it without a little help.

“Do the welts on your face itch?” Chris calls from the bathroom after he does a little research.

“Like you wouldn't believe,” Darren groans. “Some of them kinda burn too, though.”

“Okay, got it,” Chris replies, grateful when it helps narrow things down a bit. He opens his medicine cabinet and grabs a bottle of calamine lotion along with some Q-tips and cotton balls for application purposes. He also grabs a tube of Neosporin for the spots where skin has actually been ripped away, hoping it will encourage the areas in question to heal without getting infected. Finally, he grabs a bottle of Benadryl and fills a small paper Dixie cup with water for Darren to take the pills with. He nods to himself, satisfied that he's got everything he needs to treat Darren's face.

He walks back into the bedroom, balancing everything precariously in his arms. Chris catches Darren absently scratching at his jaw again as he looks at his phone. “Hey, no more scratching or you're going to wind up causing it to get infected. You don't want it to scar, do you?” he scolds.

“But it  _itches_ ,” Darren whines.

“I'll totally duct tape oven mitts over your hands if I have to,” Chris warns.

“Ha, just like my mom did to Chuck when he was a kid and got the chicken pox,” Darren chuckles. “Well played.”

“You must have been a nightmare when you had chicken pox as a kid. Your poor mother,” Chris tuts sympathetically as he sets down the medical supplies on the nightstand one by one.

“Never had chicken pox actually, knock on wood,” Darren tells him with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “So, if and when I do, I'll be your responsibility to take care of now.”

“Dear god, if that happens I might just have to hire a nurse to care for you and take a last minute vacation,” Chris pretend shudders.

“Rude,” Darren pouts. “I'm not  _that_  big a baby.”

“Depends on the day and illness or injury in question.”

“I just had half the skin ripped off my face and I've barely complained,” Darren points out a bit defensively.

“...so far,” Chris adds teasingly. He runs his fingers through Darren's hair, studying his face for a moment and trying to decide where to begin in treating the welts. It's more than a little overwhelming.

“Mmm, feels good,” Darren hums as his eyes flutter shut. After a second, he reaches for his face.

“Uh-uh, I told you no scratching,” Chris chastises, swatting his hand away.

“And just like that, the romantic moment is gone,” Darren sulks.

“Well, get ready to hate me even more, because I'm about to have to play doctor and I know how much you love them,” Chris warns.

“I assume you're not talking about the sexy kind of playing doctor?”

“Definitely not,” Chris confirms.

Darren eyes the medical supplies Chris has gathered suspiciously. “As long as there are no needles or similar torture implements over there, we'll be fine.”

“Nope, no needles, although according to cursory research I did, they often recommend a steroid shot for severe skin reactions and I think this would probably qualify.”

“No thanks, hard pass,” Darren insists. “It's not that bad.”

“They do make steroids in pill form too, you know? I bet if we called your doctor or emailed him a photo of your poor, pathetic face, he'd call in a prescription for you. You wouldn't even need to leave the house,” Chris suggests.

“What and risk the photo getting leaked to TMZ? They'd probably try to claim it was some weird sex thing instead of an utterly mundane adhesive allergy.”

Chris snorts with helpless laughter. “That would be a tough one to spin as a kink, unless you were having sex with an octopus or a jellyfish and the marks are what its tentacles left behind.”

“Exactly,” Darren agrees. “See, tentacle porn is totally a legit fetish. You don't even watch porn and you still managed to come up with a salacious explanation for my injuries in like, five seconds flat.”

“What kind of porn are  _you_  watching?” Chris asks, vaguely horrified. “I mean, I always knew you were into some kinky shit, but this is on a whole other level.”

“Hey, you're the one who suggested my face looked the aftermath of tentacle porn, not me! And let's just say that there's a reason I clear my browser history on a very regular basis,” Darren jokes. He tries to wink lewdly to punctuate the statement, but it quickly morphs into a grimace as it cracks the delicate, irritated skin under his eye. “Ow,” he moans.

“Okay okay, no more exaggerated facial expressions for the time being, killer,” Chris chides. “I should probably get started.” He picks up the Neosporin first and squeezes some of the gel onto the end of a Q-tip, deciding to start with the area Darren just inadvertently made worse.

Darren flinches as Chris looms over him holding the Q-tip. “You aren't going to jab that into my eye, are you?” he asks, half serious.

“No, just trying to patch up where you split your skin open by trying to wink at me, idiot,” Chris huffs. “Speaking of eyes, why don't you close yours?”

“Mm'kay,” Darren hums, shutting his eyes without protest.

Chris spreads the Neosporin gently as possible, but Darren still sucks in a sharp breath the second he makes contact with his skin. “Hurts?” Chris wants to know.

“Just stings a little,” Darren mumbles.

Chris quickly finishes applying Neosporin underneath Darren's right eye and then leans over and blows on the skin, making Darren shiver. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Darren says, lips curving into the barest hint of a smile.

“Okay, where else did you have chunks of skin ripped off?” Chris asks, surveying the many welts still left to treat. “Uh, down here,” Darren answers, fingers grazing over spot just underneath the left side of his chin.

Chris nods and repeats the same series of steps. Darren barely flinches as he applies the Neosporin this time, but he still bends down to blow over the abused flesh once he's done. “Anywhere else that burns?” Chris checks, quickly adding more Neosporin to a clean Q-tip when Darren gestures to one last spot.

Even Chris winces at the mere sight of a large, raw wound over Darren's Adam's apple. “Why would they put a Bandaid  _there_?” he wonders.

“Because they hate me? Or because they are just insane and there's no logical explanation for their behavior? I'm honestly not sure,” Darren sighs.

“I might have to lodge a formal complaint,” Chris says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Because seriously? All this for a stupid photo they probably won't wind up using anyway? Unacceptable.”

“My hero,” Darren murmurs. “A little late, obviously, but I appreciate the thought.”

Chris hovers over Darren with the Q-tip, frowning.

“What?” Darren asks him.

“This is going to hurt,” Chris explains reluctantly.

“Yeah, I kinda figured,” Darren replies. “It'll be fine.”

“I don't like hurting you.”

“That's good, because this would be a pretty dysfunctional relationship if you did,” Darren teases. “Besides, you didn't hurt me, those evil bandaids did.”

“True,” Chris huffs out an uneasy laugh. “Alright, let's just get it over with.”

“You act like you're the one it's going to hurt, not me.”

“It does hurt me to see you hurt, especially for such a stupid reason,” Chris admits.

“Aww Chris, when did you turn into such a big softie?” Darren practically coos. “If I thought I could kiss you without ripping open a new hole in my face, I totally would right now.”

Chris rolls his eyes. He bites his lip as he starts gently spreading Neosporin on the sore area.

“Fucking hell,” Darren swears under his breath. “Yeah okay, definitely the worst one by far.”

“Sorry,” Chris apologizes. “Want me to stop for a second?”

“No, just get it over with please,” Darren requests shakily.

Chris nods and finishes as quickly as he can. “Okay, all done,” he announces. “Did you survive?”

“Barely,” Darren groans.

Chris smoothes his hand through Darren's hair again. “It was really that bad?”

“Nah, I'm just a big baby, remember?”

“Ah yes, how could I forget?” Chris smirks. He notices that Darren has both his fists clenched at his sides and frowns. “Okay, what's with the hands? Because if it really does hurt that much you should tell me so I can–”

“Oh my god, Chris, chill – it just  _itches_  like crazy and I'm trying not to scratch,” Darren scoffs. “Seriously, you worry too much.”

“Whoops,” Chris blushes. “Well, according to WebMD, you're supposed to take an antihistamine to help with the itching and welts. You should probably take that now and then I can dunk your face of calamine lotion.”

“That sounds... messy,” Darren comments. “I seriously doubt dunking is the preferred application method.”

“Messy but efficient, given that 90% of your face is covered in welts,” Chris teases. He opens the bottle of Benadryl and shakes two pills into his palm and then picks up the cup of water.

Darren glances at the bottle of Benadryl. “That's going to knock me out. What time is it?”

Chris glances at his phone. “It's 8:30.”

“That's too early to go to bed,” Darren weakly protests.

“You're miserable and are going to be too distracted by how much you want to scratch to focus on anything fun anyway. 8:30 is a totally respectable bedtime for someone in your condition,” Chris promises.

“And what condition is that, exactly?”

“I don't know. Someone who looks like they have leprosy?” Chris shrugs.  

“So basically, I'm hideous? Do you need to chuck me into the nearest bell tower like Quasimodo?” Darren gasps in mock horror.

“That remains to be seen after you take your fucking pills like a big boy,” Chris glares.

Darren pouts out his bottom lip (very, very carefully) while he props himself up long enough to accept the two pink tablets from Chris and swallow them down with a few swigs of water. “Okay done, now where's my lollipop, Doctor?” he asks as he stretches back out on the bed.

“You're ridiculous and the only reward you are getting right now is a face full of calamine lotion and a very long nap,” Chris insists. He grabs a cotton ball and begins dabbing the calamine lotion onto one of the welts on Darren's forehead. “Does that sting?”

“Nope, you're good. That stuff smells like ass though,” Darren murmurs, letting his eyes fall closed.

“Yeah, not my fave scent either. It smells like... medicine,” Chris comments idly.

“Gee, wonder if that's because it  _is_  medicine?” Darren needles.

“Man, you're mean when you're itchy,” Chris remarks. “I'm definitely hiring a nurse and getting the hell out of town if heaven forbid, you ever get chicken pox.”

“Dude, you told me I looked like leprosy a second ago and you're calling  _me_  mean?” Darren points out. “I mean, yeah, I am cranky as fuck right now, but to be fair, I spent the afternoon in a torture chamber disguised as a photoshoot, so...”

“And yet here I am, still nursing you on your sick bed. I think I should get bonus points for being there for you in your hour of need.”

“Deal.” Darren yawns. “Minus the smell of calamine lotion that's like, singeing my nose hairs, having you dab shit on my face is pretty relaxing. Almost spa-like.”

“Great,” Chris laughs. “In that case, your bill comes to six hundred dollars.”

“I'll have to work off my debt in sexual favors,” Darren mumbles.

“Sweetheart, nice try, but you're going to be asleep in five minutes or less. Calling that now.”

“Bet you I make it to ten minutes,” Darren slurs.

“You're on,” Chris giggles. This is one bet he's confident he'll win.

Darren nods absentmindedly, not bothering to open his eyes. Chris takes his time getting another cotton ball and adding calamine lotion to it, listening to Darren's breathing even out. When he goes to start applying calamine lotion to Darren's jaw and chin, he doesn't even stir in the slightest. Chris glances at the clock and chuckles quietly. It's barely been two minutes and Darren's already asleep.

He passes the next few minutes in mostly silence, marked only with a periodic sniffle or snore from Darren. It doesn't take Chris long before he's dropping the last cotton ball to the trash can, done at last. He carefully stands, realizing too late that Darren's still fully dressed, shoes and all, and lying on top of the duvet.

Chris doesn't want to wake him, so he just unlaces Darren's shoes and slides them off his feet. He leaves his t-shirt and jeans untouched and covers Darren with a throw blanket from the foot of the bed.

He strokes one hand through Darren's hair as he surveys his handiwork. Thankfully, some of the redness and swelling in the welts is already starting to go down, probably due to some combination of the Benadryl and calamine lotion. He doubts Darren's face will quite be back to normal tomorrow, but hopefully he won't look like he has leprosy either. Chris goes to flip off the lamp but stops before he does when he gets an idea. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and snaps a quick picture of Darren, then a second photo zoomed in on just his face. Chris isn't entirely sure if he's saving it as documentation for the lawsuit he's seriously tempted to file against the kooky magazine Darren did a photoshoot with or just for the high blackmail potential such an embarrassing picture would surely possess.  Either way, he figures it'll come in handy.

He bends over Darren, immediately overpowered by the scent of calamine lotion. He presses a kiss to his hair, whispers “Sweet dreams, Darren,” and flips off the light.


End file.
